


Count Me among the Almonds

by granitsol



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: F/M, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24025081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/granitsol/pseuds/granitsol
Summary: An architect hired for the monastery's renovation inadvertently became involved with the Plan and its owners.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Palermo | Martín Berrote/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title came from Paul Celan's poem Count The Almonds. 
> 
> https://melodicverses.com/poems/21888/Count-The-Almonds
> 
> Check out my Spotify playlist for this fic!! Most songs are in Spanish, and the lyrics are all really beautiful for Berlermo in general. I will keep adding to it as I discover new songs.
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2LrNxm5MuOoza8OvZGDhnY?si=0Kfr9T_nQjmJJB2Xv2Ta_g

“No.”

“No, we will not need your help or no, you will not join us?” Sergio touched his glasses, expectant of more clarification.

The corner of Aris’ mouth twisted into a forced smile. “No, I will not let you let him kill himself,” her smile disappeared into a snarl. “The plan is suicide to him, and you damn well know it the moment he opened the door. You are helping him write his death sentence. Are people simply expendables to you, Sergio?”

_Both you and he are so quick to accuse me of the same thing._ Sergio thought shaking his head at himself. His gaze briefly drifted to the floor before he looked up again. “Andrés’ death was never a part of my plan, nor will Martín’s ever be,” he paused to take a deep breath, while Aris silently examined her own silhouette reflected in the pool of fragile emotions in his eyes. “I cannot take another death, Ari, and that is why I am here. Martín would have sacrificed himself for Andrés back in the mint. I am not asking you to do the same, but I need someone to keep an eye on him and his… tendencies. You are the only person whom I trust to have Martín’s best interest in mind,” another pause, then he adds quietly, “and whom Martín still trusts.”

_What a sweet speech to lay out a sadistic trap. The plan to Martín was like oxygen to a drowning man. Only that this oxygen was infused with poison. And now, I am obligated to control the poison and offer life—an antidote that is worth more than gold in a gold heist. Sergio is brilliant at making offers that we cannot resist._ Silence filled the room while Aris’ glance traveled from Sergio’s face to the half open window. Wind had picked up as autumn approached. She could see the snowy peaks under the clear sky afar and the dancing dust particles in the room choreographed by the draft. Sunlight touched her fingers as she covered her eyes to get a better view of the mountains.

“How is he?” she finally murmured, dropping her hand down to her side but still facing the window.

“He has changed” was all Sergio said before Aris tuned around to give him a knowing look and sat him down on a bamboo chair. He watched her sit across from the table and knew not delving into too much detail would be the smart move in this delicate conversation. Merely confirming her suspicion was enough. She poured him a cup of tea from a copper pot. The steam rose like a barrier between their faces and the salty scent of the highland overcame their senses.

“After what happened, do you expect me to follow him around in the bank like a little dog, make sure he is happy, and bark away anyone who dares to irritate him? Is my salary proportional to the impossibility of the job?” Aris voluntarily changed the topic, squinting her eyes as if blaming Sergio for his unreasonable request. For the first time since Sergio arrived, they shared a genuine smile.

“You are free to move the plan forward in the bank. You know it as well as the two of us. You will be of invaluable help to not just Martín but all on the team,” Sergio studied Aris’ reaction attentively. “Please, come with me to the monastery. The team will be there to meet you."

At the mentioning of the monastery, Aris let out a chuckle. The yak butter had cut away the astringency in even the last sip of the tea. She put down her cup like she was sealing a deal. “Sergio, you know I am partial to the beauty that is melancholy, so much so that I am willing to give up all this,” Aris gestured at the surroundings. “Plus, I have already missed out on too much… fun in the first heist. It would be unbearable to sit through another.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Spring, seven years prior_

The huge, silent stones were cool to the touch. The afternoon sky was a canvas for these pale yellow stones and the dark green cypresses. A gentle breeze lazily shuffled through their leaves. Cistercian monks were known to dedicate language to God, leaving themselves with only silence. The monastery had a corridor for hosting necessary conversations, and the rest of the space, even the refectory, was quiet. It was said that strong wind often blew through the corridor, rendering lengthy conversations inconvenient, so the monks often left in a hurry after finishing their speech. Aris always imagined that more gusts would come by after the conversations to carry the words away.

It was in this corridor that Aris met Martín for the first time. By chance, they encountered each other while Andrés was showing her around the monastery. Andrés greeted Martín warmly and wrapped his arm around his shoulder for a quick hug. Martín kissed Andrés’ cheek, looked up, and smiled at Aris. Through those sapphire color eyes she suddenly felt an inquietude that didn’t belong, even in this corridor. Aris did not know at the time that a cloud was beginning to form into a storm too forceful to be dissipated by the wind. Though had she known, the thin wrinkles at the corners of those eyes would have still dissuaded her from stepping away. His words traveled to her chest, and she held onto them tightly—“my dear architect, it is my pleasure to work with you.”

—————————————————————————————————————-–———————

“Ari, Ari.”

“Yes?” Sergio’s called had taken Aris from her trance back to the mechanical hum of the plane.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Sergio apologized, looking sincerely guilty. “I was just wondering if you have chosen a city name?”

Aris laughed and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, it was nothing. Call me Lhasa, of course."

Sergio nodded. “Lhasa,” he repeated, letting the syllables rolled out. “Something to drink?”

“Just water, please.” Aris, or, rather, Lhasa, said. They were on a private plane, acquired from God-knows-where. Its luxurious interior and Sergio’s natural aura had been noiselessly fighting against each other in an amusing battle ever since they set foot inside. “Professor,” she couldn’t resist the urge to tease, “I am enjoying this flight tremendously, but I am worried about you. You look like you are on the wrong plane.”

Sergio paused in his track. _She is still the same––so much like those two sometimes._ He threw her an exacerbated smile then tried to put up a serious expression. “Please do not do this in front of the others. Rule number one: No personal relationships…”

“Oh, come on,” Lhasa waved him off. “Tell me about the others. I want to hear all about Lisboa,” she winked and felt a sense of accomplishment at seeing the blush that crept up on Sergio’s face.

—————————————————————————————————————-–—————————-–———————

In the final hour before landing, Lhasa played through multiple scenarios in her head for how Martín may react. Scenarios in which

  1. everything resumed as if nothing had changed ( _unrealistic_ ), 
  2. Martín treated her like a stranger ( _it will hurt, but perhaps it will be for the better_ ), 
  3. they mourned the death of Andrés’ and shared stories from the years past ( _sigh_ ), and 
  4. Martín declared he missed her and he loved her ( _hope could be a dangerous thing_ ). 




	3. Chapter 3

Palermo had a sneaking suspicion that Sergio’s sudden absence was up to no good. He locked himself up in his room––an act he hadn’t dare to commit since coming back to the monastery. The plan, the lessons, and the social interactions had inadvertently provided the much needed distraction that he dismissed when alone in Sicily. Back then, he resorted to alcohol, drugs, and one-night stands, the kinds of encounters where he could detach his bodily sensation from his mind. All of those feeble attempts at “healing” had ironically taken him closer to Andrés. Palermo saw Andrés’ face reflected in the amber liquor, behind puffs of smoke, and, worst of all, in each one of his ecstasies––their names escaping each other’s lips, though only Andrés’ was ever audible.

However, even the effect of the “good” distractions was ephemeral at best. Palermo felt the familiar hollowness in his chest as he sat leaning against his bed. Death to an engineer was a problem that he could not solve. The problem between he and Andrés had no solution or closure. He was trapped in a loop, too in love to accept defeat and too proud to accept death. _Get out of this mother-fucking pit_ , he hissed to himself for the thousandth time that he could remember. His wandering eyes landed upon his desk, where the paper model of the Bank of Spain had taken temporary shelter.

_Building it was an excruciating task, but somehow Ari managed to make it enjoyable._ He shook his head and smiled at the memory the model brought back.

_Summer, six years prior_

First, they needed the floor plans. All the architectural drawings were locked up in an archive inside the bank, only people with proper IDs could swipe open the door. The plan was simple:

Martín and Aris (Andrés couldn’t risk blowing his cover for his meeting with the governor further down the road) would enter the bank on behalf of their forged association with the Polytechnic University of Madrid. Aris, a PhD student in Architectural Technology at ESTAM, was completing a thesis on high level security buildings with the help of Martín, a colleague from the civil engineering department. The Bank of Spain had agreed to a private viewing of the architectural drawings with an archivist. No electronic devices were to be brought into the archive, but they had obtained a micro camera in the disguise of a suit bottom, which Aris will wear to secretly take photos of the drawings.

“Are you nervous?” Martín asked as they got out of the car.

“Not yet,” Aris looked at him with a soft expression. “It almost feels real. I could have actually been working on a thesis like this had I chosen a different path at a crossroad at some point in my life.”

Martín thought about all the paths that he voluntarily neglected after Andrés entered into his world. _He had been the only relevant direction at all my crossroads._ He put his hand on her shoulder to pause her from walking farther. “This is real, Ari,” he felt an urge to convince her, or perhaps to remind himself. “It may not seem obvious, but the futures not chosen are equally integral to who we are.”

Aris was lost for a moment before simply responding with a nod. “Let’s go,” she squeezed his hand on her shoulder.

Within a short walk they had reached the lobby. After checking in, a chestnut-haired woman greeted them and introduced herself as Carlota. She was talkative, which was an advantage for the plan. Aris and she chatted about the general history of the bank. Martín absorbed as many details on their surroundings as possible while pretending to pay attention to Carlota.

Carlota swiped open the archive room door. At the center lied a long rosewood table with exquisite meandering grains. However, what drew their eyes were the pieces of paper spread out on top—the floor plans. Carlota took their excitement as an encouragement and proceeded to walk them through the drawings one by one, commenting on both the design intent and the draftsmanship behind these hand drawn documents.

Aris didn’t need to act like she was enveloped in awe––the intricacy and precision of the drawings truly spoke for themselves. She bent down to closely examine the line works as if echoing what Carlota said of the draftsmanship, while her fingers preventing her blazer from touching the table swiftly worked on the micro camera.

Martín kept Carlota occupied by expressing his (purely academic) interest in the materials, the unique mechanical systems, the integration of security in such a building… He was a good conversationalist; Carlota gladly delivered answer after answer on a silver plate. When they turned around from the end of the table, Martín saw Aris standing on the other side with a polite smile on her face. Aris thanked Carlota, sincerely, for the wonderful tour and the insight she provided to the thesis. They left the bank as easily as they entered. The moment the car door closed, Martín pulled Aris into a hug and kissed her on both cheeks in a rush of excitement.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Spotify playlist for this fic!! Most songs are in Spanish, and the lyrics are all really beautiful for Berlermo in general. I will keep adding to it as I discover new songs.
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2LrNxm5MuOoza8OvZGDhnY?si=0Kfr9T_nQjmJJB2Xv2Ta_g

Palermo lost track of time. Suddenly the sky outside was a deep blue.

A knock. He stomach churned. He hadn’t eaten all day.

The door opened and Sergio entered without waiting further.

All Palermo saw was _her_ , leaning on the door frame in the same effortless manner that he always remembered, as if years had not passed, nothing had happened in between their mutual absence, and she had simply come to call him for dinner.

He felt betrayed, tired, and euphoric at once. The implications of her presence vaguely signaled the sensation of losing control and sliding down a spiral. A small flame of anger grew and threatened to burn down the rope preventing him from completely falling into the abyss.

“Palermo––” Sergio began.

“Leave us,” Palermo gritted through his teeth.

“It’s okay.” Lhasa said quietly behind Sergio.

All Lhasa could think of was that she must be shaking because of how nervous she felt.

“So, what, Sergio called and you just showed up?” He grabbed her arm to pull her into the room.

“Let go of me.” Palermo did, almost instantly. Lhasa tried to flatten the wrinkles in her shirt with her hand, but what she undeniably wished was to hold on to the warmth.

Palermo took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. “Where have you been all these years?”

“In Tibet. My new name is Lhasa.”

“Ah. You made sure to leave no trace, huh? The plateau, the removed highland,” he made a dramatic gesture with his left hand and paused. “You know, I looked for you in Buenos Aires.”

“Not a bad guess. I lived there for half a year, wanted to see what it was all about before…” Lhasa’s words were cut off by a hysterical laugh. She observed his anger with an expression halfway between fascination and sadness.

Palermo challenged her with his gaze. She held her stance as he closed the distance between them. “Had a nice vacation?” Palermo’s knuckles were starting to trace the contour of her face. “Would you like me to say ‘Welcome home’?” he leaned in so close that the last sentence touched her ear as a whisper.

_And_ _I thought I could live without this scent._ All the familiar emotions Lhasa had suppressed over the years flooded through her veins and left her with a shiver. It felt as if the last kiss they shared was only yesterday. Lhasa couldn’t remember how she had been backed into a wall. She opened her mouth to respond, or to catch a breath––it didn’t matter because Palermo had stopped both when he put his index finger against her lips.

“Uh-uh,” he shushed, in a mockingly comforting way. “Were you having fun? Disappearing without a warning and knowing that we could’ve bumped shoulders with each other while I desperately searched for you in a city with three fucking million people?” The gentleness faded until the same finger that just lingered on Lhasa’s lips curled into a fist that hit the wall to her left.

Lhasa closed her eyes at the vibration and felt like she had taken an actual hit. _This is not the Martín I remember._ Frustration mounted and she snapped. “How was I to know that you cared enough to look at all? Yes, I left, because I had no choice! There was nothing between us, nothing. You had made that very clear. Selfish bastard,” Lhasa pushed his arm away to move to the door and hide the moisture building up in her eyes.

“I was searching for things too on my little ‘vacations’, Palermo,” she finally turned around to face him again with dry eyes and an innocuous smile. “But all they taught me was not to be greedy in the first place.”

_Although_ _I was never a good student._ Lhasa let out a sigh as she escaped out of the room.

Martín would have chased after her to apologize, but Palermo wanted to let her walk away because the pain this had induced was strangely comforting. _It sounded like a beautiful lesson, but why did my mouth taste of bitter poison at those words?_ He caressed his knuckles unconsciously and noticed that they were bleeding.


End file.
